


Frolic

by uumuu



Series: Our Heaven [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Crossdressing, M/M, Nipple Licking, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 09:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4741487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin and Maglor have more than one way to enjoy a holiday together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frolic

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the wonderful amyfortuna.
> 
> In the Our Heaven series, this takes place before A Catch for the Chasing and A Man for the Making, and can be read on its own.

Tyelcormo tugged once more on the laces of the corset, and Macalaurë gasped as the device hugged his waist in an unforgiving grip. 

“Is it too tight?” Tyelcormo asked with a note of worry in his voice. Macalaurë shook his head, but still Tyelcormo hesitated, holding onto the leather strings instead of tying them. “Are you sure you can breathe properly?”

“Not to worry brother...he isn't a singer for nothing,” Curufinwë said, standing perfectly still while Carnistir adjusted the folds of his skirt and secured the long train over his right shoulder. “He has complete mastery over his own lungs.”

“Well, I hope you'll both have fun, prancing around dressed like this,” Carnistir mumbled, holding one of the pins between his teeth.

It wasn't the first time some of them decided to mingle in the revelries of the harvest festival in female garb, and those romps always yielded amusement enough for the trouble. Once, they'd managed to involve their father too. 

Curufinwë had opted for a two-piece ensemble, with a skirt and a tight-fitting blouse in bright red and gold that left just enough of his waist exposed to show his navel. The blouse was long-sleeved, reaching to the middle of his thumb, partially concealing the coarseness of his hands. His neck was already bedecked with three necklaces, one above the other, and his hair had been tied in a single braid. 

“I doubt anybody would believe you're not part of town nobility,” Carnistir remarked, looking Curufinwë over with satisfaction, steadily building arousal (he was to have him, once the charade was over), and some jealousy. The thought of how many heads would turn as his brother passed by, and how many men and women would ogle him, irked him not a little. 

Curufinwë smiled in a sweet demure fashion that jumbled all of Carnistir's turbulent emotions. “I'll be a rich merchant, come to Tirion for the harvest festival for the first time in my life...I'll be sure to display suitably provincial manners.”

“You'll be sisters?” Tyelcormo said, finally tying a secure knot. 

Macalaurë shook with every pull, focusing on regulating his breathing to fit with the new shape of his body, and was content to let Curufinwë do the talking. 

“No...best friends will do,” Curufinwë replied. 

Carnistir pulled out a matching veil from the open chest sitting crossways in the middle of Macalaurë's room, and arranged it on Curufinwë's head, fixing it in place with a series of small pins and four more elaborate bodkins that also served as ornaments.

Tyelcormo gave the last tug to the knot. “There.” 

Macalaurë murmured a thank you and looked at himself in the mirror. Though he was quite slender himself, he wasn't graced with a naturally narrow waist like Curufinwë. The corset remedied that, and the figure reflected by the mirror was lean enough not to give him away as a man.

Tyelcormo helped him get into a knee-length dress to match the pants he already wore. Both were of brocade, in a sober cream white, save for strips of burgundy and gold and bronze sewn onto the hems as well as the not-too-deep neckline and shoulders. The sleeves ended just above the wrists, which were hidden under dozens of slim bracelets. His fingers were adorned by large rings. To conceal his curly hair, which would have disclosed his identity to all, he wore a wig made of dark golden hair.

Bold make-up completed the transformation, with black around their eyes and red on their lips – dark wine for Macalaurë and light cherry for Curufinwë, bright enough to outdo even the flamboyance of his dress.

“We'll meet here again in three hours then, agreed?” Macalaurë said in a light voice, higher than his natural pitch, but not too high. 

Tyelcormo nodded, leaning down to receive a kiss on his cheek while Carnistir crossed the room to claim his own.

Soon after, Macalaurë and Curufinwë left the empty house. The servants had all been given leave for the whole duration of the festival, and would be back on the day after the festivities ended. Their parents and Maitimo had been out since morning. The twins were far from Tirion, intolerant of any large assemblage of people.

They slipped out of the gate at the back of the garden, and walked down two deserted alleys, which took them directly to one of the main roads. The festival goers walked in small groups there, but the stream of people thickened as the roads winded their way up Túna.

Half an hour later, Macalaurë and Curufinwë were sitting at a round marble table under a pergola hung with wisteria, in the shade cast by the Mindon, with Findaráto and Aicanáro.

“You are not residents of Tirion,” Findaráto was saying, eyeing each of them curiously. “I do not recall ever seeing you here before.” 

“No. We are travellers, in fact.” Curufinwë confirmed, his hands clasped around the cup filled with wine that was freely distributed from the public fountains in place of water to show off the harvest bounties.

“Where exactly do you reside, if I may -”

“In a village halfway between Tirion and Valmar, to the south. It is a very small village. I fear it might not even be recorded on any official map,” Macalaurë said, feigning self-consciousness, in his perfectly pitched rich contralto voice. The place actually existed – he had visited it a couple of times with his father and brothers. “What about you?”

“Oh, we are the sons of...nobility,” Findaráto lied. He was eager to ask the ladies' names, but he didn't want to reveal his own. The pair didn't look like the kind that would be intimidated by royal status, but he didn't want to risk his station getting in the way of a new acquaintance.

Curufinwë took a sip of the wine, letting his lips linger on the brim of the cup, conscious of Aicanáro's steady, intent gaze, which revealed enough of his cousin's emotions. He slowly set the cup back on the table, and dabbed his lips with the tip of his tongue. His eyes met Aicanáro's. “Are you Vanyar?” 

“We -” Aicanáro began, only for his voice to crack. He blushed. 

“Our grandmother is a Vanya, yes,” Findaráto promptly said in his stead.

“I have some Vanyarin blood myself,” Macalaurë put in in a soothing tone, honey turned sound, flicking his gaze towards the tips of his fake tresses.

Findaráto turned towards Curufinwë with a querying expression.

“Oh no, I am a Ñoldo through and through, as my complexion should betray,” Curufinwë coyly said, and gave a light titter, covering his mouth with his right hand.

Aicanáro rolled the still-full cup between his hands, shifting nervously on his seat. It was the first time since he had reached his majority – which had happened not too many years before – he felt so self-conscious in the presence of a woman.

Findaráto drank a good mouthful of wine. As he did, his attention subtly shifted to the superb finery and opulent fabrics the visitors wore. They might have lived in a remote out-of-the-way village, but they had to be well off, rich enough to afford materials which very likely had to be bought from somewhere else. He could perhaps find out their identity by enquiring with the fabrics and jewelry dealers. “What do you do for a living?” 

Macalaurë smiled, as if he had been looking forward to that question. He pointed at Curufinwë's veil. “I am a broideress. This is my own work.”

Curufinwë nodded, buying time. He couldn't say he was a merchant. It would have worked with anybody else, but Findaráto was too well-acquainted with official records to risk getting into a discussion of trade partners and trade routes. “I am a...singer.”

Findaráto's eyes sparkled and went back to Macalaurë. “Do you sing too?”

“Oh no, I don't,” Macalaurë denied, making a small apologetic gesture with his right hand, which he then wrapped around his wine-cup.

“You sound like you would have an impressive singing voice.”

“You think?”

“Yes,” Findaráto assented, with a vigorous nod of his head, “your voice reminds me in fact a bit of the voice of a -” he abruptly stopped, catching himself before he could say 'cousin', “...the prince Canafinwë.”

Macalaurë raised both eyebrows in a surprise that wasn't entirely feigned. Curufinwë gave his left leg a little tap with his right foot. “Do you know him?”

“...it is practically impossible not to know him, for anybody who lives in this town.”

“Or if you attend any celebration,” Aicanáro added, with an unconcealed hint of asperity to his voice, “here or elsewhere.”

Curufinwë took note of the change in his speech. He knew where Aicanáro's asperity stemmed from, too and determined to exploit it. He took one more sip of the wine. “We were hoping to buy some gems or jewelry fashioned by the High Prince, but we learnt that his creations are distributed freely during the first day of the festival.”

“He does it only to buy friendships,” Aicanáro scoffed, “and it's mostly his apprentices' work. There is superior finery to be found here at any rate, I assure you. You could try some Telerin silverwork. There are vendors in a square down the road leading to the park.”

Macalaurë's left hand slid from the cup to the table, and his bejeweled fingers started a slow, rhythmic rap, which caused his bracelets to lightly rattle, but he kept on smiling. 

Curufinwë, equally piqued, drew his veil up and around his neck, making its golden embroidery stand out. The movement also caused a whiff of the strong magnolia perfume it had been sprinkled with to waft up all around him. He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Don't you think gold becomes me more?”

Aicanáro visibly blushed. He stood still for an instant, just staring, his animosity forgotten. 

“Are you married?” he blurted the next moment.

Findaráto almost jumped in his chair, turning to gape at him with a horrified expression that made Aicanáro blush even more and look down.

Curufinwë smiled benignly. “No.”

“It is-...strange, for someone so beautiful.”

Macalaurë and Curufinwë both looked for a moment at the table, as if hesitant, then at each other, smiling.

“Well, we are in truth...more than friends,” Macalaurë said extending his right hand to Curufinwë, who pressed a reverent kiss to his palm. They didn't need to fake the emotion and attraction between them. 

“Much, much more than friends,” Curufinwë added, and both Findaráto and Aicanáro averted their gazes. There were a few moments of silent consternation broken only by the light-hearted prattle of the other festival-goers, and the shouts of children playing in a nearby park. Then Findaráto cleared his throat, when -

“Cousins!” a gruff voice bellowed from across the street. 

Aicanáro's face instantly tightened. His lips thinned to a harsh line and his nostrils flared, in a grimace so comical that Curufinwë had to quickly hide the lower half of his face, and his smile, behind his free hand. 

Carnistir, the one who had yelled, crossed the street with Tyelcormo, diving under the wisteria, and sat at Aicanáro's right without any further greetings. Tyelcormo brushed past Findaráto, and took the seat between him and Macalaurë with a similar lack of courtesy. 

“What a surprise, finding you here in such...gorgeous company,” Carnistir said, slamming a stained wine-cup on the table and stooping over to ogle Curufinwë in a purposefully disrespectful manner, which vexed Aicanáro twofold: once for being rude to the guests, and for being quite an overt insult to his brother and himself. “Won't you introduce us to your friends?” 

“We have barely made the ladies' acquaintance...and I would appreciate it if you didn't act like the spoilt brat you are, for once.”

“And who are you?” Curufinwë asked, and the annoyance he imparted to his voice seemed to please Aicanáro, but Carnistir only smirked, drawing himself up with an air of brazen self-importance. 

“We are the third and fourth son of the High Prince.” 

“And you are cousins?” Macalaurë frowned, “then you must actually be -” he let his question trail, fixing a look halfway between befuddled and discomfited on Findaráto.

“He didn't tell you he's the son of Finwë's youngest?” Carnistir said, strewing an arm around Aicanáro's shoulders, which the younger elf unceremoniously shook off. “He's modest as that!”

Curufinwë looked from his brothers to his cousins in turn, and had an idea. He pressed his foot against Macalaurë's again, then tapped it thrice on the stone paving. Macalaurë nodded minutely to him. 

“If you will excuse us, we would like to retire for a while now...” Curufinwë said and stood up; Macalaurë followed.

Carnistir rose too. “We can escort you to wherever you're lodged.”

Aicanáro pulled him back down. 

“No, thank you...it was lovely to meet you, but we would not want to disturb an encounter between so exalted persons.”

Curufinwë inclined his head in farewell – Findaráto returned the gesture, Aicanáro just stared up at him in dismay – and he and Macalaurë turned their backs on the party. They heard Aicanáro hiss 'satisfied?' in what they knew would be the beginning of a quarrel, as they began walking towards the crossroads.

“Our brothers will be occupied for a while, I'm afraid,” Curufinwë purred, taking Macalaurë's right hand in his left.

“Such a shame.”

They brushed each other's mind in what was the equivalent of a triumphant grin. As soon as they rounded the corner Curufinwë hiked his skirt up with his free hand and they broke into a headlong run down the winding road. The festival-goers parted to let them pass – though they barely avoided crashing into a group of drunkards – and soon they were back in the less crowded quarter of the town. They ran to the end of the road they had emerged into not too long before, at which point they swung into an alley and retraced their steps to their house. 

Laughing, they darted into the vestibule. Curufinwë's skirt slipped from his hold just as he crossed the threshold and he tripped on it, breaking into a stumble which propelled him directly into his father's arms. 

He sighed in relief at the unhoped-for rescue, his hands holding firmly onto his father's arms. “Thank you,” he rasped, out of breath and sweating inside the confines of his tight-fitting blouse. 

Fëanáro looked at his made-up face with an amused frown. 

“It seems I have the most beautiful sons _and_ daughters on Arda,” he said, like he had said the first time he had seen his sons dressed as women. 

Curufinwë beamed up at him, and hugged him. “How come you're back?”

“Nerdanel and I...well, fell in a fountain while dancing in the lower town, you know, the large one next to one of the gates...the wine soaked us to our bones!” he laughed, and kissed Macalaurë who had come up to them. “We came here to get changed before going to see the acrobats. She should be ready anytime.”

“Say hi to her for us?” Macalaurë said. 

Fëanáro nodded and winked at them. “Have fun.”

Back in Macalaurë's room, they removed each other's clothing and ornaments, while waiting for the large tub in the adjoining bathroom to be sufficiently filled.

Their hands roamed each other's bodies indulgently – Curufinwë's traced the indentations left behind by the corset on Macalaurë's chest, and Macalaurë tapped the lines of the muscles on Curufinwë's back, the indelible marks of his work in the forge. 

“I doubt Moryo and Turco will come back any time soon,” Curufinwë said. “We have what's left of the afternoon all to ourselves, my sweet sweet brother.” 

Macalaurë wrapped his arm around Curufinwë's back, and pulled him closer, so that they stood with their chests pressed together. 

“They'll have to be content with leftovers,” he whispered.

There were no more words for a long while. They kissed, and only when the tub was half-full broke apart to get into the warm water. Curufinwë lay atop his brother, still kissing and nipping dreamily at his lips, completely doing away with the artificial red that had coated them, at his neck, at his ears.

“Who would have imagined that we would run into our own cousins,” Macalaurë said, licking his delightfully tingly lips, while Curufinwë finally slid back and turned his attentions to his chest.

“I feel sorry for Aicanáro...a little,” Curufinwë lilted, mischief in his eyes, their spark heightened by the line of black around them, and his mouth hovering just above the right nipple. 

“Well...we hadn't set out to deceive _him_ ,” Macalaurë shrugged, “and now we know what kind of woman he likes, too.”

Curufinwë chortled, recalling Aicanáro's desire-filled gaze, before flicking his tongue over the nub.

“We could act the ladies again before the festival ends.”

Curufinwë licked the left nipple too, then took it into his mouth and sucked on it. Macalaurë sighed, not caring if his suggestion remained unanswered, forgetting it as Curufinwë kissed a wet line to the right nipple again and bit on it. 

His nipples were both hard and reddened when he gently pried his brother's head away from his chest and drew himself up. He motioned for Curufinwë to sit on the edge of the tub, and crouched down in the shallow water between his legs. His tongue immediately darted out towards his bellybutton. 

“You were naughty,” he groaned in between laps, “leaving it exposed for everybody to see. I feared all my self control would not be enough not to look at it, not to touch it...”

“You can take -...all the liberties you want, now.”

“Can I?” Macalaurë smirked and bit down on the skin just above the small depression, pulling gently on it. 

Curufinwë yelped, and his cock twitched and rubbed against the top of Macalaurë's chest. His hands came to rest on Macalaurë's shoulders, looking for balance.

Macalaurë licked in a circle all around his navel, stopping from time to time to tickle, then up and down over it, going as far as the curls of his pubic hair. He felt moisture from Curufinwë's cock trickle over his skin, but ignored it and just darted his eyes up to peek at Curufinwë's face as it came alive with pleasure.

Curufinwë whimpered and hissed, pushing his belly towards his brother, but when he realised that Macalaurë was only teasing him and had no intention of taking things further, tried to shove him back.

Macalaurë clung to him, sucking avidly on his navel, until Curufinwë's hands clenched on his shoulders, and managed to dislodge him with a forceful shove. 

Macalaurë recognised the glint in his younger brother's eyes, the determination he well knew and loved to incite. He made himself comfortable by leaning back against the opposite side of the tub.

Curufinwë reached for one of the bath oils, not stopping to see which one it was, and poured enough of it on his right fingers to summarily slick his own hole. Then he straddled Macalaurë's groin and quickly eased his cock into himself, clenching hard enough around it that Macalaurë couldn't stifle a gasp.

The water sloshed up all around them as he began to move, his palms braced on the tiles just above Macalaurë's head. 

Macalaurë goaded him still, teasing his navel with his index finger, then pinching it. 

“Always so eager,” he cooed, lowering his other hand to Curufinwë's cock, stroking it to mimic his brother's movements over him. 

“Brother -” Curufinwë panted when the caresses became too much, lifting himself one last time and then settling in his brother's lap.

Macalaurë held him there, wrapping one arm around his waist, and waited, timing the up-and-down slide of his hand with the stimulation he received from Curufinwë's writhing around his own cock. They came together, sharing the combined rapture of body and spirit, a union rooted in a life-long complicity.

Curufinwë slumped forward, laying his forehead against his brother's. He began mouthing _'I love you'_ – sometimes a gasp, sometimes a barely audible whisper, sometimes nothing more than a puff of breath, but Macalaurë perceived all of them, and all sounded to him finer than any music he could ever make.


End file.
